Dear Norman Reedus,

I dreamt of you (again). It was an epic dream, the kind that picks up where it leaves off after waking a few moments to roll over, or take a quick middle of the night piss. You were a school janitor, and dressed accordingly. I don’t know what the fuck I was doing in school; and I have no idea what I was wearing, as I was dreaming in first person–I can only hope I looked hawt as all hell’s acres.

The details are dingy, but I do recall leaning against a set of tall grey lockers next to the ladies’ room, and you were nearly pressed against me. I playfully jingled the keys attached to your belt loop while you explained I was too young to kiss. Bullshit, Norman. I’m a grown ass woman–37, thank you very fucking much!

I awoke for good just after you asked me out. “Let’s get together tonight and throw some darts,” you said.

It’s a start, Norman. I’m free this Saturday.

Ever yours,

Kindra M. Austin

Published by Kindra M. Austin

Author of fiction, poetry, and very sweary social commentary. Editor, and co-founder of Indie Blu(e) Publishing. Co-founder of Blood Into Ink, and Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen.

16 thoughts on “Dear Norman Reedus,

    1. Hahaha! It’s kind of disgusting how much I love him. I once told my mother that if money was no object to me, I would pay to have my husband undergo cosmetic surgery to look just like Norman. My mother said that was the meanest thing she ever heard me say. I told her I was joking, but she didn’t me. πŸ™‚

      Liked by 1 person

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